


The Ghost

by Avice



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 13:50:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avice/pseuds/Avice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is jealous, uses drugs, is angry at John, John angry at him (eventually). Everybody hurts. Makeup sex solves all.</p>
<p>"When John finally left around noon for his evening shift, calm, good-humoured, not vexed by Sherlock's antics, Sherlock knew very well what he would do with his day. They didn’t have a case. He didn’t have an experiment in progress. He wanted stimulation. The easy way. He wanted to get away for a while. He had resisted long enough." </p>
<p>(I don't know what this is, but here it is.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost

They had been bickering all morning. Sherlock didn’t want breakfast, he didn’t want coffee, he was bored, he disliked John’s new shirt and most importantly he didn’t like John working at the surgery, not even the odd shift here and there as he did. He was back now, they had cases. He needed John. John didn’t have to leave to go to work. When they didn’t have cases, well, that’s when he needed John the most. 

John stayed calm, as always. Nobody would force coffee on Sherlock, the shirt was comfortable and he liked it, why wouldn't Sherlock clear the clutter in the living room, or for once throw out any unnecessary body parts from the fridge, and what was that brownish goo anyway, hopefully not what he thought it was, in which case it definitely should not be stored with food. 

Regardless John was going to work and keep going to work. The one or two shifts he did weekly did not in any way interfere with the cases as Sherlock working hardly noticed he was gone. And he may have a saint's patience but a few hours break from a non-working-Sherlock was a necessity for his mental health. Besides he liked the quiet of a normal job. He had grown used to it (the 'while you were gone' left unsaid). The flus and back problems were boring perhaps, but it was a nice routine. 

Sherlock knew what he really meant: it was a safe routine. Something to fall back on.

When John finally left around noon for his evening shift, calm, good-humoured, not vexed by Sherlock's antics, Sherlock knew very well what he would do with his day. They didn’t have a case. He didn’t have an experiment in progress. He wanted stimulation. The easy way. He wanted to get away for a while. He had resisted long enough. 

Besides it really wasn’t John’s work that irked Sherlock. John was right, usually he hardly noticed. What he really hated was the thought of John and Mary. 

John had gotten over him. Fell for someone else. 

Oddly enough it bothered him much more now than it had during their dating or the six months of their marriage. He had been confident then that he could get John back the minute he wanted to. He had only been happy someone took care of John, brought the occasional smile on his face. 

That confidence and empathy were gone. Replaced by insecurity and fear. Of what, he couldn't say. He didn’t doubt that John was his, and would always be. Whatever the reason for his feelings, it was too illogical to be dealt with reason. He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted away, a momentary escape. 

Not that John ever brought Mary up. She wasn't discussed. But the photograph had been placed on the chimneypiece and had stayed there. If Sherlock turned it down or to face the wall or put it in a drawer, it always returned in its proper place. Once it had resurfaced from the bin out back. She hadn’t been erased from John’s life. She had been a part of it and John refused to delete her.

Sherlock was careful in choosing the vein. He didn’t want to look like a junkie, after all. John would spot it, that couldn’t be avoided, but no one else needed to. He let out a small cry of pleasure as the first high hit him. There. All was well. 

He lay watching his mind race.

\---

John glanced at Sherlock lying on the sofa when he got home. He didn’t need another look. His face drew into a frown. He didn’t say anything. Went to the kitchen, made a bite to eat and propped up a book in front of him as he ate in silence.

“John.” Sherlock repeated it. A beautiful name. A beautiful sound it made as it left his lips. 

“John.” 

"John Hamish," he let the end drawl over his tongue. It tickled. 

“John Hamish Watson, medical doctor,” he spoke slowly. It was difficult to discern what he wanted to say from the pandemonium in his mind.

“Captain Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” Why had he never seen John in his uniform? Did he still have it? How come he didn't know?

“John. My John. Flatmate. Friend. Lover. Of consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. My John. Only friend. Only lover. Only one who can bring the great detective to his knees. Figuratively and literally.” He smacked his lips.

“John. John. John,” he repeated slowly. 

John finished his meal, not paying attention to Sherlock’s mumbling, and cleared the kitchen before sitting down on the table in front of him. 

“Why are you doing this, Sherlock? Again.” His face was in anguish. Plain to see. Plain, an open book. His John. His.

“Why, Sherlock, why,” Sherlock mimicked. 

“Yes, why? You didn’t use to… before. But now. This is the second time since you’re back. Why?”

“Why? Oh, I do know why. Do you know why, John?"

“No, Sherlock, I don’t. Just tell me,” John sighed.

“Because you got over me quick, John. Missed the muff, did you?" He enunciated the word carefully. It sounded silly. It was silly. That’s why he had chosen it.

“Got over you quick? You don’t know what you’re saying,” John shook his head. He looked sad. Oh, John. Don't be sad. I'm here. Be happy.

“Got over me. In less than two years. After two years and five months you were already married. To. A. Woman.” His laughter was dry and hollow. The darkness of the down was almost on him. No more relief.

“Got over you? That’s mad. You don’t even understand how crazy that sounds,” John heaved. “It’s her I got over soon. The minute you showed up at my door I forgot about her. Sometimes I think it was best for her to die, so she didn’t have to see how little she meant compared to you.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply.  
“Compared? So you do compare! Let’s hear it then: which one is better?” He heard the blood rush in his head, the almost deafening thud. He struggled to speak over it. John, pick me. 

“I don’t see her as being very adventurous, but maybe she would do whatever you tell her to. Did she let you use the back door? For old times’ sake. Or were you happy with the muff? Had you missed that?”

“Look, actually I’d rather not talk about this, when you’re high.”

Sherlock didn’t listen, he enjoyed the dirt he was spewing, uttering every word with thorough attention.  
“Yes, she would let you ram it up her ass. You’re a doctor after all, you do know how to stick it in there gently – a courtesy I’m happier without of course. No, I love it when you shove it in hard. You know that. But she insisted on a careful entrance, cautious strokes, didn’t she? Not quite the same, is it?”

John got up, there was no point in trying to talk to Sherlock now.  
“Oh, just… be quiet.”

“I bet she didn’t go for oral, did she? You couldn’t convince her to do both. You had to choose one.”

“Shut it, Sherlock.” His voice was tired, quiet. Do I wear you out, John?

“You chose anal. Did you tell her why? Did she know about me? Yeah, I’d say she didn’t know all of it. Otherwise she wouldn’t have let you have your way.”

“Shut up. Now,” John was stern. Giving an order. Ordering him about. Sherlock giggled, but the laughter was empty. It was not funny. John, please pick me. I will do whatever you want. 

He dropped the subject and drew back to his silent ruminations. Darker times ahead, time to come down. To pay the price for getting away.

John put away his syringe and sat silently looking out the window until early morning. When he was sure Sherlock was asleep, he went upstairs.

\--- 

When Sherlock woke up, he felt shaky and sad, like he always did after. His neck was stiff from the uncomfortable position he had been in on the sofa. John wasn’t up yet. He climbed quietly up the stairs. 

As he opened the door, John awoke, fluttered half-asleep to open his eyes. He reached out his hand for Sherlock. Sherlock got on the bed and John pulled him in his arms, gave him a sleepy kiss. John wasn't angry at him. But then he never was. Instead he stroked Sherlock’s cheek to comfort him. He shuddered, got as close to John as he could, burying his face against him. Inhaling John to get back to this world. The real one. With John. 

John so warm, comfortable against him. Stroking his back. Accepting him. Forgiving him. No need to apologise.

“Sherlock. I never got over you. I never will. You are the first thing on my mind in the morning, last thing on my mind at night and the only thing I think about in between," John's voice a little more than a sleepy whisper. He cleared his throat. "Not to mention the dreams,” he sighed. 

“I thought about you when I made love to my wife. Can you believe that? She took me for a sensitive man. With the tears and all. It wasn’t fair on her.” His hand gripped a little tighter on Sherlock's shoulder.

“Did you love her?”

“Yes.”  
It didn’t need thinking about.

“I wouldn’t have married her otherwise.”

“Like you love me?”

“Nothing like you.”  
The thought was preposterous. 

“I love you like… I can’t even describe it. You are everything. I need you to sustain me. Without you every day is a punishment I just have endure, breathing hurts,” his voice faltered. “It really does. You have no idea, how painful it can be just to breathe. I tried to live. I made an effort.”  
Sherlock caressed his face, stroked his earlobe. 

“Mary… I loved her like a cute puppy. Nice to have around to cheer you up, but not necessary for survival. She would’ve deserved better.” 

“I’m sure you were good to her,” Sherlock said.

“No. I don’t think I was.” 

“I met her once.”

“What?”

“Yes, she was out with her girlfriends. I chatted her.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I wanted to see what she was like. Whether I could trust you with her. It was after you were engaged.”

“I had no idea.”

“I tried to hit on her.”

“Really?” John let out a little laugh. He would have wanted to see it.

“She didn’t go for it. Said she was engaged to someone who depended on her.” 

“Poor Mary.”

“No, it wasn’t like that. She was happy about it. I am sure she was happy to be with you. She… it was what she wanted.” 

“So you left me with her,” an accusation.

“I did. It was best at the time. I knew she’d take care of you and wouldn’t hurt you.”

“Like you did.”

“Yes, like I did,” Sherlock admitted.

“You left me with her and now you blame me for it.”  
Sherlock embraced John tighter. Breathed him in as John stroked his hair, curling it around his fingers.

“Why her, John? Why not… a man?”

“A man? Other than you?” he shook his head “No. That would’ve been cheating. That would’ve been getting over you. I couldn’t. I tried. I mean, I went to a gay bar once, but. They weren’t you.”  
Sherlock laced their fingers.

"Did she know about me? Us?"

John was quiet, thinking. 

"I never spoke about you with her. I couldn’t. I mean… I couldn’t talk about you… it was too much… I'm pretty sure she guessed. But she never said anything. She resented the skull, though."

"Ever think it's insensitive to keep mementoes of past lovers in a prime spot in the sitting room?"

John smiled guiltily into Sherlock’s hair.  
"What's happened to you? Giving me lessons in consideration."

Sherlock grinned.

"You're right of course," John admitted.  
Sherlock stroked his arm.

"You do know why it's there, don't you?" John asked.

"Of course. I was hoping we could just delete that time. Like it never happened."

"I can't delete things. Nor do I want to. It happened. You... you did that to me."

He paused, then continued: “And I did that to her.”

"If I swore never to hurt you again?" Sherlock suggested.

John laughed dryly.  
"Don't make promises you're sure not to keep, luv."  
He kissed to top of Sherlock’s head, the muscles in his abdomen tightening as he pulled himself up a bit.

"I need to remember."

"No, John,” Sherlock turned to look at him, “you need to forget. You need to forgive. You do not bear grudges."

John smiled at him with sadness, caressed his face. His genius, always right. 

"Get rid of the picture, John."

"Fine. I will."

Sherlock continued to look at him.

"What? Now?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Oh, alright."

John skipped downstairs. Took the picture down. She deserved better. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. Then he wrapped the photo carefully in paper before setting it gently in the bin.

Upstairs he jumped on Sherlock, lying on top of him propped up and looked into the blue eyes.  
"There's one thing, though," John said.

"Hm?"

"Don't ever, ever again use me or us as an excuse to shoot up. I mean it. Never. I refuse to take that responsibility."

Sherlock gave it some thought before replying:  
"Okay, I promise." He got a soft kiss for reward. John’s lips moist, sweet. He moved his hand under John’s t-shirt to brush his skin.

"How are you feeling?"

"Depressed, starved. The usual."

"Was that all?"

"Yes."

"And don't lie to me, please."

"A hundred milligrams left."

"In the bedpost?"

"No, the emergency smokes in the back of the sofa."

John looked at him surprised: “You think I don’t search the obvious places anymore?”

“I know you don’t, darling. I didn’t put it there yesterday.”

John tried to hide his smile. Sherlock shouldn’t think he enjoyed the hide and seek, but it was ridiculous how he always let himself be outsmarted. As if he didn’t know better by now.

“Where did you get it? Not on the street?”  
Sherlock didn’t answer.

“On the street? Shit. Did you test it?"   
Again no reply.

"No? What the hell is wrong with you?!" John stood up agitated.

"I know the dealer. He cuts it safely."

"Oh, you know him! Well, it's alright then. It's not like you couldn't trust a drug dealer! Or his associates! No, they would never lie for profit!"

John paced the room angry.  
"If I come home one day and find you dead of dirty coke, I will... I'm going to... Fuck. I will find a way to make you sorry. Shit. It takes what? Half an hour, if that, to screen that crap with the equipment we have. But no-o, you know the dealer...!"

"Alright, alright, calm down," Sherlock tried to soothe him. 

"I'm not saying I condone the habit in any case, but you bloody well owe me to be cautious," he stared at Sherlock. He was trembling. 

“I will never forgive you if you die a second time. Fucking never.”  
A beautifully irrational threat.

Sherlock walked over to him. Put his arms around him and pulled him close kissing his forehead.

“I won’t. I swear. I won’t die a second time.”  
It made no sense. Sherlock had never said anything so absurd in his life. But he meant it. And John believed him. He held John close.

“I’m sorry, John. I should’ve been more careful.”

He stroked John’s back.

“Just don’t take it. Don’t fucking use that shit, please,” John muttered against his chest.  
He wouldn’t. Not for a long while anyway. 

He lifted John's chin up. Kissed him gently. Pulled his t-shirt of him. Traced his hand under the waist of his pyjama bottoms. He took John in his hand, felt him come alive under his touch. Their kiss was longing, lips tasting each other carefully. He wedged his tongue inside John's mouth. The taste of morning. He didn’t care. A rush of craving taking him over. 

His lips now hungry over John’s, John so hard under his palm. He let go his hand, pushed himself against John. John scrambling to get his clothes off him. 

“Just tear them off,” Sherlock groaned as John’s fingers fumbled on the buttons of his shirt, the kissing and arousal distracting him, hands shaking. He did, buttons popping as he pulled the shirt open and almost bit into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s knees buckled. Holding onto to John he stumbled them back to the bed. Swiftly he pulled off John’s bottoms and opened his own belt, clothes burning his skin. 

He tasted John’s neck, bruising it. His lips hard, violent on John. On John’s chest, teeth grazing him. 

“John, I love you. I love you, I love you. Don’t ever leave me,” he moaned. John back arched, fingers pulling his hair, almost painful.

“Never, never, Sherlock. God. I’m yours always,” John managed to groan. His voice full of need. 

Sherlock let him slide in his mouth along his tongue, wrapping his lips around John’s cock, cupping his ass with his hand. The lube. John floundering for it and passing it to him. John spread his legs. Sherlock so aroused he couldn’t open the lube with one hand, momentarily pulling away from John, coating his two fingers with it and then pushing them in one by one. John bucked his hips, his cock pushing deeper in Sherlock’s mouth. 

A cacophony of gasps and moans, impossible to discern his own from John’s. He got on top of John. Hungry for his lips. John’s eyes meeting his, begging him. God, John, yes, for you, for you, anything for you. He pushed inside. John caught his breath, grabbed his hair, pulled their mouths together. 

“You’re gorgeous, you’re so fucking good to me,” he gasped into Sherlock’s mouth. 

Sherlock pushing deeper, all control gone, only John, John’s body under him. His to fuck, his only. John, I’m yours, forever. Don’t ever leave me, I have to have you. John’s hips moving against him, giving him what he needed. Until John bit his lip, groaned, was thrown backwards, the heat of his semen spraying on his stomach and seeing that, tasting the blood in his mouth, the world went black. 

Gasping he pulled out, fell next to John.  
“Christ.”

“That was, yeah,” John agreed. 

Their bodies apart, just a light touch of their fingertips against each other. Breathing. John, it doesn’t hurt now.


End file.
